


Not Quite Right to the Point

by roebling



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Nipple Piercings, Nipple Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 00:03:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roebling/pseuds/roebling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer's known for a long time that he wants to get his nipple pierced -- he's just never actually told anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite Right to the Point

**Author's Note:**

> Gratuitous nipple play / nipple piercing story! Much thanks to everyone on twitter who egged me on, and especially to [estei](http://archiveofourown.org/users/estei/pseuds/estei) and [lalejandra](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lalejandra/pseuds/lalejandra) for the encouragement. I've had a few piercings in my day, but not my nipples, so I may be a bit off in describing the piercing process itself. My further apologies for any errors.

There are usually two dressing rooms: one for the band, and one for the various vaudevillian extras they bring on stage. Usually there are two, but in Dayton Ohio there's been a pipe break, a leak, something -- Spencer isn't really paying attention when Zack explains -- and they all have to jam into the one room. 

Spencer doesn’t really care. He has no delusions about how popular they are, even on this, their first headlining tour. He’s not insulted. It's just a bit overwhelming. The dancers are women in their early twenties, beautiful and careless with that beautiful. They strip down to skimpy underwear and even less sometimes, laughing with each other as they dress and get their hair and makeup done. 

Spencer still dresses in a corner with his back turned, an old locker room impulse he can't or won't shed. He tries to keep his eyes to himself, but he's still basically a dorky teenager. It's hard not to look.

Especially because Rosie has her nipples pierced.

Her breasts aren't very big, but they're round and high on her chest. Her big nipple are dusky pink. Through each runs a tiny silver hoop that shines when it catches the light.

Spencer shivers, and looks away, but he is too late.

"You don't have to be shy," she says, smiling at him. "We're all one big happy family here, aren't we?"

One of the other dancers laughs. He thinks they might be laughing at him, but he's not sure. He knows he's turning a mortifying shade of red.

"No, uh," he says, stuttering. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Rosie says. Her hair is dark and it spills down her chest in a tumble of curls. Spencer likes the way it looks: a curtain not quite concealing her pretty nipples and her piercings. She is smiling at him sweetly.

"No, no," he says, stuttering. "I ... I just was wondering if it hurt, when you got that done."

She looks down at herself, frowning. "Not really," she says. "No. But I've got a high tolerance for pain."

Spencer looks around quickly, but none of the other guys are paying attention. Ryan is drawing something elaborate on his face and Brendon is scowling at his phone and Jon is digging through the mini-fridge. They're all off in their own worlds. That’s how it’s been lately.

"I've uh ... I've been thinking of getting it done," he says quickly. He's been thinking about getting his nipple pierced for a long time, but he's never actually told anyone before.

"Aw, you should," Rosie says. "It would look cute, Spence."

He doesn't know what kind of expression he makes when she says that, but it must be hilarious because all the girls start laughing again. He finishes dressing in a hurry, back turned.

Spencer thinks he's kind of weird or something, because he really, really likes his nipples. Most people are probably fond enough of theirs, but when Spencer was really young he figured out that it felt really really good when he playsed with them, rolling one between two fingers, pinching the nub softly so his fingernail just dug in, even just rubbing them with the butt of his heel. At sleepovers and in the corners of the lunchroom at school, his friends talked about a lot of things, but none of them ever talked about playing with their nipples. Spencer thought it just be strange, but on Sunday afternoons, when his parents went to the twins' soccer games and he had the house to himself, he laid naked on his bed with his blinds drawn. He started off just with his fingers, drawing delicate circles on his chest that got narrower and narrower. Just that was enough to make him hard. He kept his hands off his dick as long as he could, pinching and rubbing his nipples until the skin around them was red and sore, and his dick was hard and aching. 

Later, after he got his own computer and didn't have to worry about parents savvy enough to check the browser history, he went online and learned about other things. Feathers. Ice cubes. Clothespins. He'd liked the feathers better than the ice and the clothespins, but they'd all been pretty great. He'd even, in utmost secrecy, stolen one of Krystal's training bras from her room and tried it on. The elastic band had been painfully tight around his ribs, and the cotton printed with rainbow colored hearts hadn't really done anything for him, and ultimately he'd been too weirded out to try anything more, but he thought that maybe a different bra -- shiny smooth silk or lace that just rasped his skin -- well, that might be kind of cool.

He also, one memorable afternoon, stumbled on the website of a piercing studio in Des Moines, Iowa that, after he entered a fake date of birth, let him into a gallery of nipple piercings.

To this day he's never come as many times in one day. He was fifteen, so maybe that's not saying very much.

He's never told anyone how much he likes having his nipples played with. He had a few girlfriends in high school and it was all he could do to bring himself to touch their breasts. None of them had seemed to enjoy it very much, and they were girls. Girls were supposed to like that kind of stuff, at least according to Ryan. But if girls weren't even into it, and Spencer was ... well, he didn't know what that meant, and he wasn't sure he wanted to.

He's way more mature now. There are perks to being in a popular band, even if you're just the drummer, and Spencer's made out with girls way hotter than he ever dared think he would. He's also, although this is not public knowledge, made out with a few guys, and he liked that a lot as well. He's pretty sure he's bisexual. He knows that none of the guys would care if he told them, but he's keeping that to himself for now.

He can't stop thinking about what Rosie said. When they're in a hotel the next night, he says he's exhausted and passes on going out to dinner. Brendon promises to bring him back a burger. Brendon's a pretty awesome guy, always watching out for him. It's weird to think that they've barely known each other three years. It seems a lot longer than that.

After Brendon goes, shutting the door softly behind him, Spencer slips out of bed and turns the deadbolt over. He doesn't want anyone to walk in on him. He takes off his shirt, and turns on the lights, and stares at himself in the mirror.

He's gotten taller in the last year, and shed some of his baby weight, but he's still kind of soft looking. His chest is solid, but not super defined, and there's just a little bit of extra softness under his nipples, so they're a little puffy and show through all his shirts. He really likes that, even though he'd die before he ever told anyone.

It seems like most guys you see with nipple piercings are ripped, with abs and pecs and bodies that they parade around for everyone to see. Spencer isn't like that, but then, he doesn't want to be. This is something he wants to do for himself.

The next time they have a day off, Ryan and Jon make plans to go to a bar to see this local band play. Spencer says he wants a night in. Brendon looks confused, and says he'll stay to keep Spencer company, but Spencer tells him he should go and enjoy himself.

"I'm just feeling a little out of it," he says. "I'm gonna go to bed early anyway, dude. You should go have fun."

Brendon looks skeptical. "If you're sure," he says. 

"I'm sure," Spencer says. He feels really bad about lying to Brendon, but he doesn't know how to explain what he's doing and why he's doing it.

After everyone's gone he calls the number of the cab company he looked up online, and goes downstairs to wait. The studio he found is very reputable. Spencer read tons of reviews and it seems like people are really happy with this place. Their website is professional and up to date, and there are bios for each of the tattoo artists and piercers. 

His appointment is at seven o'clock. He gets there a little early. There's a woman a little older than he is working the counter, and he whispers a silent prayer that she doesn't know who he is or, if she does, is willing to pretend she doesn't -- for both their sakes.

She looks up, gaze disinterested, and Spencer relaxes a little. He tells her his name and she checks something in her computer.

"Give us a few minutes to get ready," she says. 

Spencer sits down and takes out his phone. He texts Brendon: _Having a good time?_

Brendon responds right away. _Your supposed to be sleeping!!_

 _Soon!!_ Spencer sends, and then he puts his phone away because the piercer comes out.

He's an older dude named Keith with tattoos covering his arms and neck and a ring in his septum. His short hair is salt-and-pepper grey. He's friendly but professional, keeping to pleasantries as he leads Spencer back into the piercing room. Spencer sits down on the low chair. Everything is clean, and the room is well lit. Keith shows him a tray full of jewelry. Spencer has thought about this; he did his research online. He really wants a twelve gauge d-ring, but his nipple are kind of small and he thinks the ring would be harder to hide under his shirt. He picks the 14 gauge bar instead, which Keith says is a good choice for a first piercing.

It's weirdly relaxing. There is music playing, something Spencer recognizes but can't name. He takes off his shirt. Keith puts on a new pair of gloves and asks again, "Right or left?"

"Right," Spencer says, confident. He’s thought about this so long.

He wipes Spencer's chest down with some kind of disinfectant, and with a Sharpie draws a dot on one side of Spencer's nipple, and then the other.

It's not hot. It's not meant to be. Keith does this all the time; it's his job. But it is the first time that anyone has ever touched Spencer's nipple with intent, and he can't help but notice how good it feels. He bites his lip, and tries to breathe.

Keith takes his nipple between two fingertips, and pulls, and holy fuck. That isn't a whisper of pleasure but a spike that runs down to the base of his spine, and Spencer bites down on the inside of his lip. He wills himself to concentrate on the cold arms of the chair under his fingers, the art on the wall, the sound of traffic on the street outside.

"Okay," Keith says. "Ready?"

"Ready," Spencer says. He has been, for a long time.

"Breathe, and I'm going to do it on the count of ten."

He pulls a little on Spencer's nipple again, and Spencer tries to hold still, but it feels so fucking good. Keith counts slowly, in his deep voice, and Spencer breathes in and out. 

He does it on the count of nine. Just like that, and the bright silver needle is driven through his flesh. Keith slips the bar through, and screws the ball on the other side, and that's it.

"All done," he says, taking off his gloves. "Not that bad, right?"

Spencer's breathing heavily, but not from pain. It wasn't bad -- not at all.

He listens as Keith goes over the aftercare instructions, but Spencer's read this all online so many times. He can't stop thinking about it, can barely resist the urge to look down. It throbs, but doesn't hurt. It feels good but strange. That strange good feeling threatens to overwhelm all the other things he's thinking.

He puts his shirt and his jacket back on carefully. He pays and tips Keith, and takes one of their cards along with the paperwork. He goes outside and waits for his cab. 

He's back at the hotel before nine o'clock. He takes off his shirt and looks at his piercing in the bathroom mirror. His nipple is swollen, and the skin all around it is red and tender. Even so, he loves the way it looks. He wants to touch it so badly, but he knows he shouldn't. He wants it to heal properly. He has to wait two weeks, which isn’t a long time at all. And after that it'll be there forever or until he takes it out, which is basically the same thing, because Spencer never, ever wants to take it out.

It's harder than Spencer expects to take care of things on tour. He goes out the next morning and buys sea salt and Cetaphil and baby wipes and a sleeve of little plastic cups. He stayed up the night before and read all the materials Keith had given him, and he knows he has to soak his piercing twice a day for the first two weeks. He's probably not going to be able to sit in the dressing room before they go on with a cup held do his nipple and escape notice, so he resolves to wake up early and do it.

The bus is still and dark at five o'clock in the morning. They are rolling smoothly down a road in the middle of some anonymous blank flat part of the country. Quietly, Spencer rolls out of his bunk, bag in hand. He heats the water in the microwave, shutting it off before the timer goes off. They don't have measuring spoons, so he eyeballs a quarter of a teaspoon of salt and stirs it in. He probably doesn't wait quite long enough for it too cool off. The hot water stings when it hits his piercing, but the sting quickly subsides. The heat is soothing. It feels good.

Afterward, in the dimly lit bus bathroom, he stares at himself. He's worried about infection, but it looks so far like it's healing fine. His nipple is still red and a little swollen. He can't touch it -- won't touch it -- but he rubs his fingers around his aureole, gentle over the tender flesh. The piercing is discreet, but his eye is drawn to it. He can’t stop looking. He can't stop thinking about it.

It's not hard to find fifteen minutes alone in the morning, or fifteen minutes alone after the show, to take care of it. Nobody notices, or if they do, they don't say anything. He wears hoodies and sweaters because as subtle as it is you can see the double rounds of the balls through the thin tee shirts that Spencer prefers. He thinks he'll probably tell the guys pretty soon -- eventually they're going to end up at a hotel with a pool, and he will say something then, or before. Whatever. He's not trying to make a thing out of it. He just sort of likes that it's a secret. When he's playing, the fabric of his shirt pulls at the jewelry a little . The fact that nobody else knows makes the pleasure sweeter. 

He takes a picture of it on his phone in the bathroom in Phoenix. It's a stupidly hot day, and the heat has made everyone lethargic. Brendon is laying on the cool cement ground, fanning himself with a years-old copy of Spin. Jon is sleeping. Ryan's nowhere to be found.

"Going to take a shower," Spencer says. 

Nobody acknowledges him. That's fine.

The bathroom is nice, for a venue. He's certainly seen worse. It's tiled all in blue -- floor, ceiling, walls -- and the reflected blue light gives his skin a weird green cast. He really does mean to just take a shower, but after he's undressed he catches sight of himself in the mirror and he can't help but admire the way the piercing looks. The swelling has gone down, and it’s not as tender. Spencer's still nervous about infection, but he can't wait until he can run his fingers over it, feel the contrast of cool metal and warm, soft skin. 

Spencer thinks taking pictures of yourself in risque situations is pretty stupid, as a rule. He used to make fun of Ryan when posted half naked pictures on LiveJournal, and as much as he's come to like Pete, he's not entirely sure he didn't get what he deserved. Really, though, Spencer doesn't have anyone who would want to look at risque pictures of him. This one, he's taking for himself, and he's going to delete it right away. He just wants to see what it looks like -- not in a mirror and not when he looks down -- but what it would look like to someone else.

The picture is a little blurry; his hand isn't steady and the lighting isn't good. You can't see his face, just the corner of his chin, and he has no identifying marks. The person in the photo could be anyone; he doesn’t think it looks that much like him. His shoulders have gotten broader in the last year, but his chest is still a little soft. A point of light reflects off one of the metal balls. It looks good, he thinks. It looks really good, and he thinks it would look better if he got the other one done, too. Better still would be if he could actually touch.

He jerks off in the shower with the water running cold, rolling his unpierced nipple between his fingers. 

Once he's dressed, he takes out his phone to delete the picture. Looking at it again, though, his finger pauses over the button. He really likes it. He really, really likes it, and it's not like he's Pete Wentz. Nobody's going to hack into his cell phone. He'll keep it, he thinks, just a little while longer. Nobody else cares. Nobody else will know.

The hardest is when they're getting changed. They're not shy around each other and Spencer can't come up with a good excuse for why he keeps going into the bathroom to get changed. Ryan is too miserably disinterested to care. Spencer itches to console him, but he has learned in the last year that it's difficult to console someone who doesn't want consolation. Jon is affable and distant still; he's not going to question anything. Brendon though ... Spencer knows Brendon notices, and he knows Brendon wants to ask. He can tell when Brendon's withholding a question. He sucks his bottom lip in a little bit, and narrows his eyes. 

Spencer spends a lot of time watching Brendon -- his mouth and his eyes and his own small nipples, dusky pink and barely raised from his flat chest. He doesn’t know what it means, exactly. If he does, he hasn’t yet admitted it to himself.

The piercing is healing really well, and Spencer loves to play with it. Sometimes he reaches up to rub it through his shirt and has to stop himself just in time -- even during an interview, once. The interviewer kind of hates them, or at least treats them with cool disdain, and Spencer knows she would have said something, and that would have been the most mortifying ever. (Even so, he can't stop thinking about it, what it would have been like if he _had_ rubbed his piercing and she _had_ said something. He jerks off for hours thinking about that, actually, one solitary night when he’s got the lucky single room at the hotel.)

He knows Brendon's going to say something at some point but it’s two more weeks before he finally does. The tour is almost over, and they're at a nice hotel, which makes things pretty awesome. Spencer slept really well; he wakes feeling rested and full of energy, which is rare enough these days. Brendon's still snoring, so he figures he'll shower and get that out of the way. He rummages through his bag for his stuff. He's running low on Cetaphil. He isn't supposed to wash his piercing every day now, but he figures he better get some more, just in case. He grabs clothes to change into and stands up.

"Okay," Brendon says, loudly. "I thought it was Jon or something, but it's just the two of us now, so I guess not. Why are you acting so weird? Is it something I did? What changed?"

Brendon is very much awake. He is way more wily than people give him credit for.

Spencer feels his cheeks start to turn red.

"No," he mumbles. "Nothing you did."

"I don't get it," Brendon says. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Spencer says. "Nothing. I just ... I got my nipple pierced. Is that weird?"

Brendon's eyes go a little wide.

"Really?" he asks. "Wow. Can I see it?"

"Sure," Spencer says, voice a little choked. He pulls off his loose sleep shirt. 

"Woah," Brendon says. "You really did, didn't you?"

"Um," Spencer says.

"I mean, I kind of noticed. Or thought I did? Not that I was looking or anything ... I just .... " He looks down, cheeks red.

Brendon is pretty good at faking it -- that's probably why he's the singer (well, that and his voice). Spencer forgets sometimes that he's still basically the same dorky kid. 

"No," Spencer says. "It's fine. I mean ... It's there. People are going to notice."

"Yeah," Brendon says. His cheeks are still red. "It looks good. Can I ... touch it?"

Spencer breathes in sharply. He's thought about this for a long time -- so long. Someone else's hands on his chest, someone else's fingers, someone else's mouth. Those imaginings have always been shadowy and amorphous. Nothing like this -- Brendon, sleepy-eyed, with his hair sticking up everywhere, and white hotel sheets and the bright morning light coming in through the window.

"Yeah," Spencer says. "You can."

He sits down on the edge of the bed. Brendon crawls hands and knees closer. His pajama pants are too big. They ride down, baring the small of his back and the top of the curve of his ass. He reaches up and touches the barbell so lightly, with the barest tip of one finger.

"Neat," he says, sitting back on his heels. His glasses are sliding down his nose. "How does it feel?"

Spencer rolls his eyes. "I didn't feel that at all," he says. "But it usually feels good." He looks down. Brendon's skin is darker than his, and Brendon fingers ook slim and capable. "I really like playing with it. "

Brendon pulls his hand away fast. He's still staring at Spencer's chest. He brings his hand to his own chest and pinches his own nipple.

"I think mine are broken," he says sadly. "They're just kind of ... there." 

Spencer laughs, but he doesn't mean it. "They're not broken," he says. "I guess we're just different. I always thought it was weird that mine were so sensitive. I didn't think guys were supposed to like that."

"I like that," Brendon says. "I mean. I think I would. Yours anyway."

"You can," Spencer says. He's barely breathing. He's already getting hard, thinking about Brendon's red mouth on his nipple, Brendon's pretty tongue. He's thought about this for such a long time, but he never dared think it would really happen.

"What can I do?" Brendon asks. 

"Be careful," Spencer says. "Um. Just your fingers, on the piercing. Don't pull it or twist it. It's still healing. But whatever else is okay. I'll tell you if it's not."

"Cool," Brendon says. "Come here."

He puts his hand on Spencer's shoulder and pulls him back so he's lying flat on the bed. For such a little guy, Brendon is pretty strong. He sits on Spencer's belly, a heavy but not uncomfortable weight. He puts his hands on Spencer's ribs, pinkies brushing the soft skin of Spencer's stomach. 

"I thought about this," he whispers, not looking Spencer in the eye. "I didn't think you'd want to ..."

"I do," Spencer says hurriedly. "I've thought about it too. I really do." He sounds a little desperate, but he doesn't care.

Brendon slides his hands up Spencer's chest. His calloused fingers feel so good, just the right amount of roughness. He draws a circle around Spencer's nipple, the right one -- the pierced one. Spencer arches up into his touch.

"You really like it, huh?" Brendon says. "Wow."

"Yeah," Spencer says. "It feels so good." He doesn't know how to explain it better than that, but he can feel the pleasant ache everywhere -- his chest, the pit of his stomach, his dick. 

Brendon traces his nipple again, this time letting his finger nail drag. Spencer feels stupid lying there prone, so he brings his hands up to Brendon's waist, his thumbs resting in the divots in the small of Brendon's back.

Brendon teases Spencer's other nipple, circling it with his fingertip, dragging his nail across the tip, pinching it and pulling a little. Spencer's fully hard now, his dick trapped uncomfortably by his stupid basketball shorts. He's trying to keep his hips still but he can't. He'd feel bad, but Brendon's hard too, the bulge obvious through his cotton pajamas. 

"Roll over," Spencer whispers. 

Brendon rolls off and onto his side, and, flailing a little, he kicks his pajamas off. Unsurprisingly, he sleeps with no underwear. Spencer has seen his dick before, but never hard. It's darker than Spencer's, and a little smaller, but Spencer thinks it looks kind of perfect. Brendon's pubic hair is dark too, and trimmed close. 

"Yours now," Brendon whispers, and Spencer lifts his hips so Brendon can pull his shorts and his briefs off. His body is bigger and softer than Brendon's, and he feels a faint flash of embarrassment bu it doesn't last. Brendon puts his hand on the curve of Spencer's belly, just under his belly button, and he looks up with wide dark eyes.

"This is good, right Spence?" he asks, voice questioning in a way that Spencer's never heard it.

Spencer wants to roll his eyes again. "Of course," he says, and he rolls onto his side too, into Brendon's space, pushing their hips together. The casual accidental brush of his dick against Brendon's is so good -- as good as Brendon's hand back on his pierced nipple, stroking. 

Spencer reaches down and puts his hand around Brendon's erection, not moving, just holding it. He's never, ever done this before and he's afraid of messing it up but he doesn't care. He's never felt this good -- not with any of the girls he's been with -- and he thinks he might know why. Brendon makes a desperate sort of groan. The height difference between them is just right -- Brendon dips his head and kisses Spencer's chest, sucks wetly and bites a little. It's a little sticky and kind of gross but it feels great. Spencer is breathing these big shaky breaths that fill his ribs. Brendon's other hand finds his dick, and his hips pump. They move in a rough disunion. Brendon bites down on Spencer's nipple, hard -- harder than anything Spencer's done to himself -- and it feels like a jolt of electricity that spreads to all his limbs and directly to his dick. He gasps, and comes, sticky all over Brendon's hand and both their bellies. 

Brendon's glasses are falling off, and his hips are pumping frantically. Spencer's hand is bigger, but not big enough to cover all of his dick. Brendon reaches down blindly to wrap a hand around the base. Spencer cups his other hand around Brendon's jaw, and pulls him up for a kiss, and gasping into Spencer's mouth, he comes too.

Spencer rolls onto his back. He's still breathing in big, deep breathes. 

"Woah," Brendon says. "That was really awesome."

Spencer can't help it. He laughs. His whole body feels kind of shaky, but in good way. "Duh," he says. 

He sits up, slowly. 

"Hey," Brendon says. "Hey! Where are you going?" His whole chest is flush. 

"I want to clean it," Spencer says, brushing the piercing. It’s a little sore, and he shivers at the sensation.

"Oh," Brendon says. He looks disappointed. "I wanted a post-coital cuddle." He pauses, frowning. "This counts as post-coital, right?"

"I think so," Spencer says. "Maybe you could help me wash it?"

Brendon looks confused, brows knit, so Spencer clarifies. "In the shower."

"Oh!" Brendon says. "Yes. Right. I totally can help you clean it."

Spencer smiles what he knows is the biggest dopiest smile anyone has ever smiled. "Come on," he says. "Shower now. Cuddle later."

"It's a deal," Brendon says, taking his hand.


End file.
